The last photograph of the world
should be taken right here.
On that day, I wouldn’t swim, instead,
stand in sand and stare out toward
Canada where my father, once drunk,
pointed and said: That is where you come from.
Lineage, wet with distance, measured
in waves swift as rust. Industry and ice,
the color wheel of Cleveland in two seasons –
burnt orange, drowned white, post-mortem
hues of ships years beneath time.
Lycoming, Ivanhoe, Hickory Stick.
My father, drunk once, said:
If only we could be a little more like those ships
we could rest between histories.